


it's strange how you make me feel ... continued

by hicnos



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Witcher Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:14:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25161463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hicnos/pseuds/hicnos
Summary: Geralt meets a bard that makes his life a little brighter, that is, despite his grumbles and protests to said bard. The witcher recognizes Jaskier from somewhere, yet he cannot remember who he is.Meanwhile, Jaskier recalls things that he had no memory of before.---had to continue it
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 3
Kudos: 21





	1. fleeting memories

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [it's strange how you make me feel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23897167) by [orphan_account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account). 



> Ok, so I found this fic when it was not orphaned and now since it is I really wanna continue it, so that's what I'm gonna do.
> 
> I credited the original. The first two chapters are not my own work and are from the original (except for a few additions/changes and the second chapter's end bit).
> 
> Hope you enjoy this as much as I do. I love this work too much to let it go to waste.

-

\--

\---

The waves could be heard from outside, angrily crashing against the ship’s sides, as if the ship was an intruder to the waters below. Julian had gotten used to the monotonous rocking of the vessel, each crash of water causes his head to bang against the metal bars behind him. He was sitting across from another cell, shirtless and weaponless. The closest thing to a weapon the witcher had on his person was his cat medallion, and he wasn’t that desperate. Not yet, at least. To say that Julian felt uncomfortable without the swords on his back was an understatement.

He wasn’t alone in my cell, a few feet away from him a man was unconscious on the floor. Julian was sitting across from him, leaning against the bars by the cell door. In the cell beside Julian's, a man stirred, and woke up. Sitting up, he turns to see the witcher, and looks surprised that there’s another person other than himself with him.

“You speak Common?” He asks in a gruff voice, gesturing towards Julian.

“Yeah. Know where we are?” Julian asks, turning his head to the side to face him. The stranger scoots closer to the bars and grips them, tilting his head up at him.

“On the ‘Albatross’. Or the ‘Phakbarthojl’, as their tongue has it. En route to Ofier.”

“Don’t remember signing on as a sailor.”

“Haha, oh, you didn’t, mate. They dragged you aboard. Seems you killed their prince. Thought they killed you.” He explains. Julian stands up, walking over to the bars that separates them and sat down, his back facing the stranger.

“Right, the toad from the sewers. Must’ve been cursed. Shit, means I’m in trouble.” Julian holds the bridge of his nose, gathering his thoughts.

The witcher had accepted a contract, a toad in the Oxenfurt sewers.

_Killed it, the corpse turned into a man, then- then boots, some yelling, and that’s it.This is all a misunderstanding, must be a way to clear this up, rather not face the gallows again._

“Shit, if that toad was their prince.. I’m lucky to be alive.”

“Depends how you look at it.” Julian turns his head towards him.

“Happen to know a bit of Ofieri. Heard them sayin’ they’d come here on a mission. Dispatched by their king to find their prince, lift the curse.” He raises his hand up through the bars, emphasizing his words. He continued.

“Wagered their honor- and that of their families five generations back- that they’d bring him home, safe and sound.”

“And I killed him. Great.” Julian rubs his eyes with his hands. “So, must think they can save their honor by bringing the prince’s murderer back- to face the king’s justice.” The witcher sighs.

_This is all just a simple misunderstanding, though, I doubt anyone here would listen to me. But, it’s worth a shot. The waves were restless outside, crashing into the ship harshly. At some points, I’d think we were in the air instead of the sea._

“Who’s that?” Julian nods his head to the shirtless guy on the floor of his cell.

“Ofieri’s dragged him on board along with you. Found him poking around in the sewers, looking for that prince of theirs, too. Think he’s dead, hasn’t moved at all.” Julian hums in response before talking again, watching the supposed dead guy’s body rise and fall. He is breathing. A chain is on his neck, though it's hard to see what the necklace is, his chest is flat against the floor of the ship.

“No, he’s fine. And who might you be?” Julian nods towards him.

“Phelippe Calagrande at your service. Petty thief, professional fence, and your guide about Oxenfurt when I’ve a bit of time. What about you?” He said, leaning against the bars, his hands hanging from them.

“Julian. A witcher. And why’re you here, Phelippe? You kill a prince, too?”

The man on the floor begins stirring. He is waking up. He holds his head, and sits up, looking around before his yellow eyes meet Julian's, they are practically glowing in the dark. Julian's eyes trail down to his medallion- a wolf. The cat witcher noticed him eyeing the scar running across his lips, and felt weirdly insecure for a moment. Julian has never been one to shy away from his scars, not to mention the other witcher isn't exactly a clean slate himself. The wolf's gaze travels down to Julian's medallion, and the wolf visibly stiffens.

Julian frowns bitterly at this, and avoids the other witcher's uneasy gaze on him.

 _Us Cat's don't exactly have the best of reputations, most of us turned assassins for hire, but he really doesn't need to pile on the guilt with the heavy hesitance towards me. It's unnerving, to put it mildly._ Another wave crashes into the ship, Julian's head thuds against the bars. _I'm damn lucky I don't have motion sickness._

“Well, to their thinkin’, I had a hand in this one’s death. See, I was their guide. Led them down into the sewers, but not until after you’d cut their prince’s gut open.” The ship swayed heavily to the side, a few buckets and lighter crates slid across the floorboards, banging into the metal bars. The wolf watches Julian with a strange expression, unreadable to the cat.

“Oh, dreadfully sorry about that, Phelippe.” Julian says sincerely. A few drops of water fell onto Julian's bare shoulder and he cast an uneasy look above. This all spells trouble.

“Not your fault, mate. When all’s said and done, could’ve sat on me arse in the Alchemy playin’ gwent. Didn’t have to brag about knowin’ Oxenfurt better than me own breeches. And who are you?” He asks, looking at the white-haired witcher.

"Geralt." He says, his voice rough. Julian studies him closer.

_My, he's rather attractive for a witcher- straight nose, strong jaw, and nice lips. If circumstances were different I'd buy him a drink; though, I doubt he'd accept. Doubt he'd even accept being a Cat's friend. Especially when considering the wariness of his response. He doesn't trust me, but, he doesn't have much of a choice now. Hell, I would believe if he thought I killed the prince on purpose for a few crowns. A part of me hopes he doesn't think that low of me._

“Why’re you here?” The cat asks Geralt, meeting his eyes.

“Contract on the toad. Guess it was the prince, though. Suppose you didn't know anything about the curse?” Julian felt his body go rigid, the atmosphere suddenly tense.

 _I was right. He does think that I killed the prince on purpose._ Geralt narrows his eyes at the cat.

“No.” Julian says sternly, evening his gaze with Geralt's. After searching Julian's eyes for a few moments, the wolf turns his gaze elsewhere, and rests his arms on his raised knees.

“We been at sea long?” Geralt asked the witcher, eyeing the heavy rain falling onto the stairs that led up to the deck.

“No. Better for me, though. If they’re hauling me off to hang me, I’m not in a hurry to arrive.” Julian runs a hand through his dark hair.

“Me, I’m glad to be sailin’ to Ofier. I hear they got wild horses there, white with black stripes. Always wanted to see one o’ them.” Phelippe says.

“Sure they’re not black horses with white stripes?” Geralt inquires. Phelippe shakes his head.

“Nay, black horses with white stripes they’ve got in Zanguebar. That I’m sure of.” He says confidently, gesturing to Geralt.

The ship rocks silently, the only sound is coming from the outside. The waves seem even more ferocious than before. _A storm- could be a good sign for us._

Julian stands up, cracking his neck before turning to Phelippe.

“Have you tried to break out yet?” The cat asks.

“Beh! Used every ounce of charm I got, and nothin’ doin’. Might be my Ofieri’s rusty.” He admits, throwing his hands dismissively at Julian.

“My Ofieri is non-existent.” Geralt deadpans.

“I know some.” Julian says. “Learned from a lovely Ofieri girl long ago.”

“Elkhahl!” Two guards approach the cell, they are drenched in rain. Water drips off their ankle-length armor and their hands rests on the hilt of their swords. _The storm must be worse than I’d previously thought._ Thunder cracked menacingly outside, as if confirming Julian's thoughts.

“What’s he saying?” Geralt asks, standing up and walking behind Julian.

“Quiet.” Geralt shuts up. Julian smiles. “No, he said ‘quiet’, silly.” The cat walks up to the bars, gripping them with his hands.

“Ghalaveth kharh u albahta a'ghell. Ghyle'am vallarh, quar verrethe ner.” The guard says, gesturing towards Julian.

Julian translates for the others. "You killed our prince and you'll pay for that. Were it up to me, you'd be dead already." The other guard steps in.

“Revhaghr ner'am ea kharher, Annar. Dhorgatte ye'allami.”

"Vengeance is not ours to reap, Annar. It's the king's. We swore on our honor." The witcher translates, eyeing the guards carefully.

“Vhajlth alle'khe uhl eghullath.” Julian says, speaking fluently in Ofieri. _I need to clear up the misunderstanding one way or another._

“Elkhahl, sokhan. Inhkal avr ikhell urgherevng aul vihter.” The man, Annar, as the other guard had called him, spat at Julian. And so, they walk away. They hold up their arms to block some of the heavy downfall as they step up the stairs and make their way onto the deck.

“What'd he say before he left?” Geralt asks, watching the guards’ boots disappear from sight. Julian hangs his bare arms on the bars, letting his forearms hang outside of the cell.

“I’ll hang in two weeks. Tried to get them to take me to their captain, but they just called me a dog and left. I think that’s progress.”

"I guess, that’s more than I was able to get from ‘em.” Phelippe says. Groaning, Julian pushes off the metal bars. He pinches the bridge of his nose, pacing the cell with a hand at his hip. Geralt sits on the bench in the cell. He watched Julian pace for a few moments before sighing, and drags the cat down to the bench by his arm. Julian looks at him questioningly.

“Not worth worrying about it right now.” He says, looking forward. Julian lets out a breath.

“I suppose, but, believe it or not, I’m not too keen on dying just yet. And two weeks is hardly enough time.” Julian whines. Geralt huffs out a laugh at that.

“For?” The cat smiles at him, but it doesn’t meet his eyes. _My canines are probably on full display from my disfigured lip._ Shouting could be heard from the deck.

“Pff. I don’t know. I’d wish to become a bard.” Geralt raises an eyebrow at that, giving Julian a soft smile. _Oh? Has he finally realized that I haven't lost my marbles yet like most Cats? Maybe I was wrong about him, maybe we could be friends at some point. Well, in the two weeks before my impending death._

"I think you should smile more." Julian admits, but Geralt doesn't get the chance to reply.

“Djinniah!” A man yells in Ofieri from the deck. Julian stands up, the wavering vessel making it hard to keep his balance. _Djinn? Do they have a djinn on this ship?_ Geralt casts a worried look above. The floorboards above them creak, and water drips down from the rotting wood.

Water explodes into the ship, caving in some of the deck and swallowing the ship whole. Julian grips onto the bars for life, as did Geralt. Phelippe rams into the metal bars, and goes limp in the cold water. Another surge of water rams into Julian, and his grip fails. He was about to slam into the wall when he felt someone grab onto his arm with a firm grasp, it was Geralt. He holds on for a few moments before his grasp on the metal bar and Julian slips, throwing them both into the middle of the ocean during a storm.

The stinging cold water breaks apart for a split second, allowing Julian to barely fill his lungs with salty air before the water forcefully threads together once more- knocking the air from his throbbing lungs once more. Flailing his arms, Julian tries to grasp anything, anything that would bring him above the bone-chilling waves the engulfs him- dragging him further and further into the dark abyss. A sliver of hope passes through his mind- _maybe, just maybe, I’ll be alright. Despite my hopes, in the back of my mind, I knew they were just the desperate delusions of a dead man._

\---

Rough sand scratches at Geralt's back, the sun blinds him as he opens his eyes. His hands are bound, and he's being dragged by someone. The witcher looks to his side, there are a few guards walking alongside the Ofieri man who drags him across the landscape by his feet.

_Shit, what happened… I was on a ship with two other prisoners and Ofieri, and we crashed. My head rings, probably hit it and passed out. Where are the other prisoners? What were their names… Phelippe and... never caught the other's name, but he was a Cat witcher, and is probably dead along with Phelippe- I don’t see them here._

His tongue feels salty, and his throat’s dry. _How long have I been out?_

The men around Geralt were speaking to each other in their native tongue. He eyes a large rock close to him and grabs it with his bound hands when it's in reach. In one fluid motion, the witcher hurls the rock at the man’s head so he falls forwards, releasing Geralt. The witcher pushes his back off the ground while kicking his legs up, his feet landing on the sandy ground. The other guards yell and draw their weapons, closing in on him.

"Sokhan!" One spat at him. _Chances are, it probably means something degrading to me._

Leaning over, Geralt grabs the knocked out guard’s sword and cuts the rope binding his hands. He flicks the stolen steel blade around his wrist before turning to the guards.

“Let’s dance.” He growls.

\---Years Later---

Something’s wrong -that much was obvious to Geralt- or it’s perfectly alright. The attention, the stares, are all turned away from the white-haired witcher. Either something more unnerving is in the tavern, drawing in the scrutinizing stares, or something more interesting, drawing in an adoring audience. Geralt hopes for the latter.

Geralt turns his eyes up from his tankard and groans to himself. _It isn’t the latter. It’s a fucking bard, in all his silk glory. An eyesore, worse than the first option._

“You think you’re safe, without a care. But here in Posada, you’d be wise to beware…” The bard begins singing, strumming his lute with his fingers.

There's something about the bard that reminds the witcher of someone. An old memory perhaps, so far and distant that Geralt has long forgotten. He shrugs the thought away. _Must've been in some town I was passing through, heard him from the tavern, maybe._ But it's not just the voice that seems familiar, the face, the attitude, the way he carries himself- it all seems too familiar to Geralt.

 _Strange._ Geralt looks at the ale at the bottom of his tankard, swirling it around once. _Must be something weird in my drink, I've no recollection of him._ Yet, even after the empty reassurances, the witcher still finds himself watching the bard with curious eyes.

“The pike with the spike that lurks in your drawers.” The bard walks forwards while playing his lute, taking a step at every note. Strumming the strings fervently and getting the customers to clap along with the song, he watches the people with a grin on his face. A scar runs through the side of his lips, destroying them and revealing his canines. It reminds Geralt of Eskel's scar, though, the bard's healed much better than Geralt's childhood friend.

It is strange to see a bard with scars. His hands are littered with a few smaller ones along with a few welts on his fingertips that are probably from playing the lute. His eyes are cornflower blue, and his hair is a dark brown, yet you can make out a few silver hairs here and there.

He throws his foot onto a stool. Geralt raises an eyebrow slightly at his dramatic antics.

“Or the flying drake, that will fill you with horror!” He holds out the last word, closing his eyes and throwing his head back a little.

“Need Old Nan the Hag to stir up a potion, so that your lady might get an abortion!” He sings loudly. Groans fill the room as people turn away from the bard and shout curses at him, some even throw food at him.

“Abort yourself!” One man yells, throwing bread at the bard. Scoffing, Geralt lifts his tankard up, thoroughly enjoying the turn of events.

“Oh, oi! Stop! Fuck off!” The bard yells while flinching away from the bread, raising his hands up to block the food.

“Shut up!” Another yells at him. The bard sets his lute down, placing it inside its case.

“I’m so glad that I could bring you all together like this.” He says sarcastically, gesturing towards the people with his hands.

“Sit down and shut up!” A woman, this time.

“Unbelievable.” He scoffs. The bard crouches down on the floor, gathering up some bread and coins and stuffing them into his pants.

As Gerat watches him, the witcher pieces the puzzle together, slowly, one piece at a time. The wolf's eyes widen. Gerlat almost stands up against his will, and bangs his knee on the table instead, earning some weird looks from a few patrons and the innkeeper.

 _I saw him, back on the Ofieri ship. Who was he?_ Geralt runs through the faces and names on the ship. The faces were blurred from the years, yet he was able to cross off the Ofieri guards he saw. _He's northern, was he one of the prisoners? Has to be. Which one, though? Their names, I can barely remember. One was a witcher, and I can't remember much about the other._ Geralt takes a deep breath, and watches the bard. The bard looks up at him, and Geralt quickly snaps his eyes away from minstrel.

Geralt stands up to leave, but before he can make it past the door, a man approaches him.

“A job I’ve got for ya. I beg you. There’s a monster in our woods, terrorizin’ the locals and some unlucky travelers. In advance, I’ll pay you. A hundred ducat.”

Geralt turns around and looks away from him. _A hundred, huh?_

“One-fifty.” The witcher barters, meeting his eyes with a cold glare.

“I’ve no doubt you’ll come through. You take no prisoners, so I hear.” He shuffles through pockets before handing the witcher a money pouch. Geralt takes it.

“Any recent witnesses?”

“That bard from inside. Monster attacked ‘im on and some others the road.”

“Where is he?” Geralt asks, casting a look around the tavern. The bard is no where in sight.

“Went out back with a man.” Geralt grunts.

With that, the witcher left. Cursing as his boots sink into some mud outside, Geralt adjusts his headband. _Still better than Velen, place is a giant swamp with drowners and water hags at every turn. I hate it._

Rounding the corner of the tavern, Geralt makes my way to the back of the establishment. He stops abruptly.

Someone is talking. Geralt leans against the wall silently, and eavesdrops.

“Listen… It's Beatrice,” The man pauses.

“I've fallen in love with her, alas. Pen me a sonnet, would you?”

“A sonnet? Tough genre. It'll cost you a few crowns.” It’s the bard’s voice. _Found him._

“So you'll not write it for free? But, it would be an invaluable experience…” The man says, trying to convince the bard. The bard lets out an unimpressed scoff at this.

“For that, I can offer you this couplet: "All cheapskates, skinflints, penny minders: go plough yourselves, you fucking misers!"” Geralt bites back a laugh at that.

“The cheek! It's true what they say - every bard is a lazy good-for-nothing!” He stomps away, practically running into Geralt when he turns the corner.

“Yeah, yeah, and good riddance!” The bard yells after the man. Geralt takes the chance, and walks up to the bard. The witcher's medallion hums as he get closer to the minstrel. _There's magic at play here. Strong magic._ The bard's face is contorted in anger, his brows drawn together tightly.

When the bard saw Geralt he groans and looks away, holding the bridge of his nose with his eyes closed shut.

“Interesting method. But what's more interesting is how my medallion hums when I'm near you.” Geralt says, eyeing him. My gaze lingers on the scar disfiguring his lips.

“What, do you too have a lovely beau that needs a fucking sonnet in order for her to spread her legs? Fuck off, you and your weird medallion.” He says, gesturing to Geralt. Despite the bard's words, Geralt caught the bard's eyes lingering on the wolf medallion.

“No. Just curious.” The bard turns to face Geralt.

“Cut the shit, what do you want?” He nods towards the witcher and leans his shoulder against the tavern.

“Need to know about the monster that you saw by the woods.” Geralt lifts his hand towards him, urging the bard to talk. The minstrel sighs, visibly calming down. Pushing himself off the wall, the bard begins to talk.

“My apologies. I’m rather irritable today. My friends at the Academy call me Jaskier.” He introduces himself and holds out his hand. Geralt crosses his arms.

“Ah, not in the mood for formalities, I see." He says, tucking his hands under his arms.

"I was traveling with a caravan- couldn’t recall one of their names even if my life depended on it. The beast jumped out of the trees and attacked. I ran, I don’t know what happened to the others. It was a big beast, the size of the bloody Hierarch. Hell, bigger than that. Maybe cross the Hierarch with a bear- no, two bears, a goat, and- and you get the pretty picture. Well, not exactly pretty, but-”

“Any distinguishing features?”

“Yeah. Horns, a nuzzle, goat eyes, kinda looked like- like…” The bard's eyes trail downwards, dismay and confusion washing over his face.

“Like...?” Geralt presses

“No, I just- A word came to mind. Means nothing to me, but it seems to fit.”

“Don’t have time for riddles, bard.” The witcher says sternly.

“A fiend.” The minstrel finishes. His eyes are on Geralt, but his gaze seems to go through the witcher. _How unnerving._

“Must’ve heard it during my time in Oxenfurt.” The bard says, suddenly chipper. His entire demeanor changes, almost throwing Geralt off. The witcher raises a brow at him before turning around. _Doubt it's worthwhile to ask about the ship. It's more than likely that he wasn't even on it in the first place._

“Farewell, bard.”

“Wait!” He calls after Geralt, running up to his side.

“Ah. Need a hand? I’ve got two. One for each of the, uh, fiend’s horns.” The bard raises his hands up, presenting them to the witcher.

“Go away.”

“I won’t be but a silent back-up. Look, I’ve hit a stump of sorts. You saw it yourself back there. I mean, a sonnet! For free at that! I’m losing my touch, and maybe real adventures would make better stories. And you, sir, smell chock-full of them.”

Geralt unties Roach from a fence post a few yards away from the tavern. Looking up, Geralt raises his arm to block the sun from his eyes.

_The sun is still high, a fiend shouldn’t last too long. Be able to travel a bit further after collecting the agreed sum._

Wrapping Roach’s reigns around his hand, he moves on to the road. The bard is still rambling on about something, following close behind.

“Amongst other things. I mean, what is that? Is that onion? It doesn’t matter. Whatever it is, you smell of death and destiny. Heroics and heartbreak.”

“It’s onion.”

“Right, yeah. Yeah. Ooh, I could be your barker, spreading the tales of Geralt of Rivia, the- the White Wolf!” He throws his hands out dramatically, trying to emphasize his point.

Geralt pauses. Jaskier bumps into his shoulder and looks up at me with a questioning look.

“Why that name?” He asks, turning my head to the side to look at the bard.

“Why? Do you want people to call you the ‘Butcher of Blaviken’?” The bard asks.

“Butcher is right.” Geralt begins walking again, leading Roach.

“Far from it. More so, the name is dull and lacking fervor."

\---

Crouching down, Geralt examines a corpse in the forest. He found remains of the caravan that ran off the road thanks to the fiend.

The witcher lifts the cold body’s arm up, ignoring Jaskier’s gagging at the sight, and checks the wounds. Geralt's gaze lands on the body’s legs. Marks similar to those on the arms were littered across the lower limbs.

“Bite marks on arms and legs, wounds were post-mortem. Necrophages.” Geralt curses under his breath. _Cause of death: internal hemorrhaging from a strong blow. That’d be from the friend. Wasn’t trying to kill them, just trying to get past them. The unlucky caravan just happened to be in its way._

After a quick glance at the other corpses, Geralt surmises that their injuries are all similar.

“And, do you, perchance, know where the monsters with the munchies ran off to? That’d be just lovely to know, especially if they are not within a five mile radius of us.” Jaskier inquires uneasily from behind Geralt.

“Nearby. Don’t stray far if you want to live.” The witcher stands up and Julian stays close behind him. _The fiend’s tracks are clear, but a few hours old. Traces of blood are visible along the prints. It’s injured, but not by the caravan, by something else. It’s scent- an amalgam of the fiend along with another’s scent._

“It must be holed up in some cave relatively close to here. It wasn’t alone, the scent was mixed with another’s.”

“What do you mean by that? Geralt, what does that mean?” He asks, giving Geralt a worried glance.

“Must’ve been forced out of its home for it to be this close to the road. A territorial dispute, maybe. Chances are, it’s dead now.”

“Oh, great! Well, let’s go back and collect the reward and carry on our merry way!” He says, relieved. Before he could turn around, Geralt speaks up.

“Have to take care of the thing that killed the fiend.” The witcher starts to follow the tracks further into the woods. Julian sighs, and reluctantly follows me.

“Oh, that’s just wonderful. Yes, let’s go after the even bigger scarier thing that killed the original big scary thing. Great idea- Wait, I never caught your name.” Julian is walking briskly behind me, his lute case bouncing against his back.

“Geralt.”

“Well then Geralt, we shall die together. On my gravestone it’ll say: killed by impending dangers that the guy to the immediate left of me just had to mess with.” Geralt bites back a smile.

The witcher doesn't answer him and continues following the fiend’s tracks.

“Don’t worry, we, my friend, shall be remembered by many great ballads to come.”

“Not your friend.”

“Oh, you just need some time to accept our growing friendship. I understand.”

\----

“I love singing. Songs, poetry, ballads, everything. Ever since I was young I had a certain ‘bond’ over lead and paper. It would lure me in with every word, every scripture, every sentence, like a beacon calling me home. At night I sat by a single oil lamp emitting the only light in my room, writing new material until the nub of my pencil was so dull that my fingers would brush against the parchment.”

After finding the cave, Geralt found the fiend’s corpse inside. _A chort had killed it, my theory proved true. I set up a lure. Now all I needed to do is wait for the chort to come out. I told the bard to get back when the fighting began, but I’m not sure if he heard me._

 _The chort should come in a few hours._ Geralt pokes at the fire with a stick, causing embers to fly up in the air and the logs to crack, weighing down against the fire’s flames. They are in the forest, waiting a short walk away from the cave.

The bard sits across from Geralt, talking avidly about his life and thoughts. Geralt looks up at him without moving his head. The witcher's arms felt light as they rested on his knees.

“Explain something to me: how do you manage to still sound like you’re speaking in poetry when you’re just rambling meaninglessness to me?”

“You jest. A jesting witcher, I find that quite endearing."

“Hm.” Geralt turns his gaze back to the glowering flames.

"I've been writing and composing all my life, as long as I can remember. Though, my work isn't much to be celebrated."

Jaskier laughs rather somberly.

“The song back at the tavern didn’t exactly get bad reviews.”

“Geralt, they threw bread at me.” Jaskier deadpans.

“Editable and fresh bread, I’ll add.”

The bard giggles at the witcher, “I swear, you look at things like no other, do you? It’s quite refreshing after dealing with the fucking nobles and suck-ups from the Academy for years.”

“Hm.”

“I’ll even consider writing you a sonnet, for free at that. You should feel honored.”

“Consider me honored.” Geralt smiles softly at him. Jaskier watches him, amazed.

“My, I never knew you had it in you.” Geralt knits his eyebrows together.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just… I think you should smile more.” The bard smiles, his disfigured lip revealing a small part of his gums. 

Those words, that gaze- they seem familiar to Geralt, like déjà vu. Geralt gives him a weird look before standing up.

"Gonna wait for it in the cave."

"Please do come back, rather have a living, walking, muse." Geralt snorts.

"Muse?" He asks, eyeing Julian.

"Well, yes. Unless you prefer something different? Impending danger seeker, perhaps? You sure like poking at the bee's nest, like no one else I've met, at that. And I've certainly met my fair share of people."

"Hm." Geralt leaves him by the fire, and begins walking towards the cave.

\---

With a snort, the chort charges at Geralt, faster than he expects. Rolling out of the way, he grips his silver sword, Aerondight.

Sword up, he sidesteps, walking a slow sweep of the cave that the chort mirrors- its eyes glowering furiously in the shadows.

The chort’s nose is black and wet, nostrils flaring wide as it sucks in breaths.

With a terrifying bellow, the chort charges. Geralt twists and ducks, lashing at the chort with his blade. It knocks the sword aside, opening a bone-deep gash in its arm, and it got the witcher in the gut with its head.

The air explodes from his lungs, and he almost doubles over himself. Licking his lips, he tastes blood.

“C’mon, bitch.” Geralt snaps, flicking his sword around his wrist.

Spinning his blade, he slashes at the beast, earning a horrific screech of pain from the chort. It stumbles back, and lashes it’s head at the witcher.

Geralt ducks, and stabs the chort in the chest with Aerondight. The relic stumbles, before falling onto its side.

Kicking the corpse once, Geralt runs a hand through his hair. He sheathes his sword. _Dead, now for proof._ He crouches down, flipping a blade in the air before stabbing it deep into the chort's neck.

\---

"There you are! I was starting to worry. So, what was it?" Jaskier stands up when he saw Geralt emerge from the shadows cast by the trees.

"Chort." The witcher sits down beside the fire after fastening the head onto Roach.

"Ah, of course. Um, what's that?" The bard asks, pointing towards the head.

"Proof."

"Oh. How lovely." He sits down across from Geralt, avoiding the bulging eyes on the head. Jaskier clears his throat.

"Now, what rhymes with 'chort'? Hort, cort, port... you should've fought the chort at the port, that'd rhyme much better than 'dark, scary, cave'."

Geralt decides not to point out that the first two weren't even words. Sighing, the witcher looks up at the bard and point towards his own lip.

"What happened?" Jaskier stiffens and frowns- deep and bitter enough to make Geralt regret asking.

"It sounds silly, but I'm really not sure." He admits, still not meeting Geralt's eyes. _Knew I wasn't going to get a straight answer from him._

"Don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

The fire is dying, its last embers flew up into the sky, and the clearing in the forest goes dark. It's dead silent.

"No, you're wrong. I really don't know how I came to get this." He looks up at Geralt. There was honesty in Jaskier's words, he's not lying. The witcher raises a dark brow at him.

_Something's seriously wrong here. A bard that doesn't remember getting his face cut up. If he did remember, he would probably have twenty-something ballads about it, fabricating most of the events and portraying himself as a gallant hero. Yet, he sits there silent, looking deep in thought as if digging through his head, trying to piece his memories together. It's weird seeing the bard so quiet, so lost in his thoughts, so aloof._

"Huh. Got a history of amnesia, or something?" Jaskier smiles sadly at the witcher.

"Not to my knowledge, no. If only, then I suppose that'd explain a lot." Geralt hums at his response.

"Go to bed, Jaskier. We'll take the trophy back tomorrow." Jaskier, lights up at the name. He grins mischievously at the witcher, looking smug as ever. Jaskier shakes his finger at him.

"Not friends my ass, you just called me-" Geralt cuts him off.

"Don't make me regret it." Jaskier grins at him. Sighing, Geralt lies down and shuts his eyes, ignoring the pure joy radiating off Jaskier.

He could feel Jaskier's eyes on him, but they quickly left as the bard douses the fire and laid down.

"Night." Jaskier yawns.

Geralt's thoughts kept him up all night. Thoughts about the bard.

\---

\--

-


	2. spirits and lutes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jaskier after the crash

-

\--

\---

Seagulls cry out from above, swirling around in the sky. Julian finds himself on shore- sand clinging to his wet body. He lunges forward, coughing up some salt water and looking around frantically. His gaze turns downwards, looking at himself. His only possessions: trousers and a cat medallion. Grabbing his throbbing head, he tries to piece together his memories.

 _I was on… what was I on? What was I doing?_ He tries to cling to the memories, but they fall from his grasp. _I know nothing, save my name and that... I’m a bard?_ Information spills into his head, it's nearly overwhelming. _Yes, I’m a bard. I’ve studied at Oxenfurt Academy for years. But, why am I here?_

Two gashes are imprinted in his arm, the medallion hums at the sight of them. He looks warily at the wounds, a part of him knows they are important. Very important. Gulping, he stands, staggering on his feet. He rips the necklace from his neck, and pocket it. _The odd jewelry seems to have befallen a curse of sorts, perhaps, to make it vibrate like so._

Brushing the sand off his trousers, he looks around in confusion. The beach is calm and seems strangely inviting. Stumbling forwards, he regains his balance and stagger along the shore. The oranges and fuchsias of the horizon swirl together like oil paints on canvas. They reflect sweetly on the lazy waves that sink into the sands with ease. Seagulls fly above the clouds that hang around the setting sun, the barely visible stars shining through. Wet sand squishes up in between his toes with each step along the sandy dunes. It’s just before twilight, the sun is setting. The tide grows, rolling in up to his heels and erasing some of his sandy prints.

He's not exactly sure how long he's been walking, but he's far from where he woke up, and it’s dark out now. Everything seems so peaceful, yet, somehow, a part of him can tell that underneath the misleading tranquil landscape, a deep menace lies. Screeches can be heard from afar- a high, monstrous screech. His entire body goes rigid when a body pressed up against a wooden plank comes into view. A siren swoops down low, circling the man. He feels little relief when he saw the man's chest rising and falling.

_The man would’ve been lucky to have drowned in the sea, a death caused by a monster is nothing short of a few words: merciless, slow, and agonizing. Sirens usually hunt in flocks, making use of their numbers as well as their ability to move effortlessly through water and air. Meaning, this lone siren must’ve gotten separated somehow, and is now desperate for food._

Ignoring the sudden burst of arcane knowledge, Julian swallows- hard- and grabs a large rock off the ground with shaking hands. With his limited memory, he makes an educated guess that as a bard from Oxenfurt he hasn't done much fighting in his life. So, his fighting skills and experience are probably close to non-existent. Nevertheless, he easily lifts the rock above his head and hurls it at one of the siren’s wings in a lame attempt to distract it from the defenseless man on the ground. The siren whips its head around at this, screeching out. The monster swoops down, but before it could dig its razor-sharp claws into Julian, he rolls out of the way. He can barely turn around when the siren is already swooping at him once more, with no time to react, he yells out the first thing that comes to mind and lifts his arms up defensively.

“Please, please go away! I really wish you would!” Dead silence hung in the thick air.

He waits for his impending death, but nothing happens. Peeking out from behind his raised arms, he finds no siren ready to kill him. Julian lowers his arms, and backs up, looking around for the monster. _Has it fled?_ The siren is nowhere to be seen. His eyes fall on the man on the ground. The man looks familiar to Julian. _Have I seen him before? Maybe he knows what happened to me. Provided he’s still alive._ Crouching down, he places two fingers on the man's neck, checking his pulse. The man is fine.

The man stirs awake a few minutes later. Julian was about to explain what had happened with the siren, but the man interrupts him.

“By the gods! You survived, Julian! It’s me, Phelippe.” He exclaims, looking Julian over as if he has two heads.

“You look a bit different, lad. Always had those eyes?” Julian looks at him, confused. _What about my eyes? Are they different?_ Julian swallows down his worries.

“Um, I have to apologize. I may have hit my head, perhaps. I don’t remember much of anything. Mind explaining?” Julian gestures towards him. Phelippe huffs.

“Right nonsense, that is. Ship crashed n’ we went down with it. Simple as that. Have to give you the benefit of the doubt, my friend. Your mind isn’t the only muddled one. Can barely remember much. Have to say, though, doubt anybody else survived that crash. Right shame for that friend of ours, but the others can rightly fuck off.” Phelippe says, spitting at the end.

“Oh, so it was a crash?” Phelippe stands. Julian's eyes follow him.

“Aye. On another note, I’m off to Novigrad. Always work to be found in that shithole. Nearest town is just over that hill,” Phelippe says, pointing over yonder, “though, I do hope I’ll see you again, witcher. Farewell.” He raises his hand up, waving Julian goodbye as he walks away.

“What did you call me?” Julian asks, bewildered, but he is too far away to hear. He leaves Julian with his own thoughts and even more questions than before.

His eyes trail up to the empty space where the siren had been but minutes ago.

_There’s no way it would just disappear just because I told it to do so. I should be dead. Just what happened?_

Julian lets out a shuddering breath before taking Phelippe’s advice, and makes his way to the town. Dragging his feet up a particularly rocky area that takes him off the beach, his eyes catch something. _My arm, I had sworn there were two jagged scars there before, but there is only one._

He swallows thickly, averting his gaze from the mark- telling himself in his head that nothing strange is happening, that his head is just muddled, just as Phelippe had told him mere moments ago. It didn’t work. The rest of the trek to the town is most definitely going to be filled with interminable worry. Yet, a part of Julian feels a rush of excitement and adrenaline from the mystery. He frowns, deeply.

“Why are you looking so down?” Looking up, Julian notices an old woman a rock toss away from him. She is drying out some clothes on a line, watching me with her hands on her hips. She gestures at me.

“You shouldn’t look so sad, young man.” She calls out, turning her attention and hands back to adjusting the clothes on the line that keep getting wrinkled from the wind. Behind her, a town stood. It is made up of a few houses that were made of mostly wood, but a few have stone foundations. Probably made for village elders. _This might as well be a good place to earn some coin and get back to my life, putting the supposed shipwreck behind me._

“Do you know where I might be able to get some clothes?” Julian asks the old woman.

“You can borrow some from me. My son died a few months back, you look to be the same size as him, but you definitely have a better physique. Don’t give me that look, people die all the time around these parts. There’s a war going on. My house is just behind me, take a left when you get inside, there’s a chest on the ground with some clothes.” Her kindness stuns him.

“I-I appreciate it, is there any way I can repay you?” He asks, walking up to her.

“Stay for dinner, you’re as skinny as a rat.” She smiles, wrinkles deepening in the corners of her eyes.

Julian nods appreciatively before going inside the house. Inside the chest the old woman had mentioned, he finds a good pair of trousers and a silk shirt. He got dressed and decided to wait for the woman.

\---

  
“Why are you helping me? I’ve no coin nor valuable possessions.” Julian mind wanders back to the medallion. He had put it in the new trousers. The medallion couldn't be worth more than a crown or two. At least, he didn't think it’s worth much. They are sitting at a small table in her house, eating the soup she had prepared beforehand, yet she leaves her's untouched. It was a bit on the cold side, she must’ve made it forever ago. _Maybe she forgot about it._ She sighs. The fireplace a few feet away from them crackles, sending a few sparks into the air. It was dying, it has been burning for a while.

“To be honest, you resemble Lucas, my son. Felt as if I’d be forgiven if I helped you.” She explains.

“Forgiven? What for?” Julian sets his spoon down, diverting his full attention to the old woman.

“Before he died, we got into a fight. Over something silly, but I was irate and beyond resonating with. I had told him not to go to war, to stay here with me and sing his songs while we wait for the war to blow past us. ‘No, mum.’ He said, ‘Those Nilfgaard ought to pay for taking Temeria.’ I took him for a singer, not a soldier.”

She smiles fondly and holds her hands together in her lap. She wore a turquoise ring on her finger, which compliments her eyes.

“He was always so very adamant about the war. Very strong opinions. I always knew it was just going to cause trouble one day.” Her smile fades as she looks down at her lap, her expression somber.

“One day, he was speaking poorly about Nilfgaard at the tavern. Some boys overheard him, and decided that they didn’t like what he was saying. The innkeeper found him later, dead behind the tavern.”

“Oh, I’m very sorry for your loss-” She smiles softly at him and holds up her hand, signalling him to stop.

“No need. You’re a bard, aren’t you? Or perhaps a soldier?” She asks, nodding towards Julian's hands. An old feeling is lost behind the word ‘soldier’, as if it pains her to say it.

“What makes you think that?” He inquires, looking down at his hands.

“Your hands- you’ve welts on them. Perhaps from a sword or strings, maybe from something different all together.” He raises a brow at this.

“You’re very perceptive, I’ll give you that.” Julian looks at his fingers, curiously blooming in him. “Yes, I’m a bard.” It was a simple thing to say, but the words felt false, foreign even, on his tongue.

She smiles warmly at him before standing up. He watches her as she disappears into a small room. Moments later, she comes back out, a lute in her hands. She holds it out to him before he understands.

“No, I can’t take it. That must’ve been your son’s. You must keep it.” She shakes her head.

“I cannot. I’ve no use for an instrument. It only brings back sad memories of him, he never truly realized his gift. I wish he could’ve used this better. I believe you can make better use of it. Besides, a bard is not a bard without an instrument. Take it, I insist. Otherwise, it would sit here and collect dust.”

“You’ve never even heard me play, I could be tone-deaf for all you know.” She smiles fondly at him before moving the lute closer to him.

“Then play for me, play me something hopeful, just as my son did for me. Take this request as your payment for the meal and clothes.” Her voice warbles, now eerie, sounding as if it echoed through the house. The room suddenly feels cold.

Julian watches her questioningly before his eyes catch something. In the room she had gone in before, part of a limp hand can be seen. Dried blood from mere hours ago is visible along with a slit on the wrist. His gaze travels up to the pale finger: a turquoise ring.

He smiles sadly and nods at the old woman, finally understanding the purpose of this.

The woman had died a few hours ago, what was in front of him was her benign spirit. She had killed herself, couldn’t cope with the pain of losing her only son. Now, she’s trying to replace the bad memories with good ones before she leaves. Her son never played this lute, it's as good as new, save the dust. Chances are, she bought the instrument for her son, in hope that he would use his talent to create some hope in these dark times, yet he had wanted revenge instead. Revenge on Nilfgaard.

With careful hands, Julian takes the lute from the spirit’s hands, and places his fingers ever so gently on the strings. The chords flood into his head, and his fingers move on their own. The woman sits on a stool in front of the dying fire, and listens as she stares into the small flames. Her head is turned away from him, yet he can hear her soft sobbing. No tears fall from her face, for spirits cannot cry.

And so, he plays for her. He plays for her until his fingertips are raw, and it hurts to pluck the strings.

\---

Julian turns around, and watches through the window as the spirit evaporates into the air. The lute felt heavy on his back. It's late now. He was a few yards away from the house. Julian had buried the body and marked her grave, leaving behind a few flowers on top of it. Horses and the creaking of wheels echo throughout the night, a caravan is passing along the path. They come to a halt.

“You, bard. Want a ride? We’ll take you as far as Posada if you play for us.” A man says, he is sitting up front, holding the reins of the horses. His face is lit up by a lantern at his side. Voices and some soft laughter could be heard from the inside of the wagon. Merchants, traveling around the world to trade their goods.

“Yes. But I’m afraid I can’t do much other than sing as of the moment.” Julian's fingers burn slightly at the mention of playing, yet no regrets emerge from his mind.

“Aye, that’s mighty alright. Hop in, we’ve got quite a bit of traveling in front of us, my friend.”

\---

“Pff, I didn’t take that long.” Jaskier says softly, walking into the dark room. Geralt and Jaskier stopped at an inn after collecting the reward for the chort. After singing downstairs for a few hours, the bard returns to the room to find Geralt asleep. It is weird seeing him asleep, so at ease and vulnerable while being dead to the world. Geralt is an early riser and always went to bed after Jaskier, so the bard has never seen him like this before.

The witcher's chest rises and falls as he takes in even breaths. Setting down his lute, Jaskier takes off his shoes and some clothes; leaving himself in an undershirt and trousers. They had originally wanted two rooms or at least two beds, but they decided that ultimately saving money was of more importance. So much so that they’d swallow their pride and spend an awkward night or two by one another.

To the bard's annoyance, the witcher’s large frame was taking up most of the bed. He kneels down on the bed and lift Geralt's arm up as he lies down next to the witcher. Jaskier's eyes drift to his face as the bard subconsciously lay Geralt's arm over himself. Even in the darkness of the room, the wicher's distinct, handsome features were quite clear. For once, Geralt's brows weren’t knitted together and his eyes weren’t narrowed.

Jaskier trails his eyes down Geralt's face, stopping at his lips. A part of Jaskier wonders what they would feel like. He quickly looks away, flustered. _Get a hold of yourself, Jaskier._ Against his will, Jaksier finds himself watching Geralt's face again. _I just want to try something, it’d only take a second._ He swallows down his nerves, and brings his hand up to Geralt's face. The bard's fingertips brush against the witcher's pale skin, tracing along his face and sharp jaw. Tremors run through Jaksier's hand when he cups Geralt's jaw gently, careful not to wake him. He presses his thumb against the witcher's soft lips, running it across them slowly before tugging at his bottom lip. Jaskier's eyes watch them hungrily.

Jaskier curses at himself in his head. _What the hell are you doing, Jaskier?_

__

_Fuck._

__

_\---_

__

"So, where are we off to?" Jaskier asks the witcher. They had left the inn early, and were making their way to god knows where. Jaskier observes that Geralt is rather quiet today. The witcher was walking in front of Jaksier, with Roach's reigns in his hand. 

__

"We're going to a nearby village. According to the notice, someone's been cursed." He answers without turning around. 

__

The bard's ears perk up at that. _He said 'we'. At first glance, it was glaringly obvious that Geralt wasn't exactly fond of my company. But, deep down, I bet he doesn't mind my company, hell, maybe he even enjoys it. Though, that may be a bit of a stretch. Either way, it was comforting to know that he wasn't itching to run his sword through me every time I open my mouth._ Smiling at him, Jaskier gingerly walks up to him. 

__

"Aw, you said-" Geralt turns his head to the side, sending the bard a cold glare. Whistling, Jaskier decides not to finish his sentence. 

__

"Someone needs a nap..." Jaskier sasy lowly, averting his gaze and lifting his hand up to stroke Roach's mane. She whinnies appreciatively. Jaskier knew he heard him, but Geralt chose to ignore his comment. _Seems like that's all I'll get out of him today._ The bard pulls out his lute and begins to play a soft tune. 

__

They aren't going to do much today other than get the reward for the chort and find an inn. Jaskier can see it in Geralt's eyes. The witcher looks tired, not physically, but mentally. _Is it because of me?_ Jaskier's fingers waver, causing the song to become off-beat. Geralt cast him a worried look, to which the bard just gives him a reassuring smile. Jaskier likes to think that he is aware of a side of Geralt that not many people are shown, despite not knowing the witcher for long. _He has a big heart, he cares a lot about people close to him even though he doesn't show it. Though, I wouldn't consider myself close to him. I've only know him for a few days, after all. I frown at this. I really don't know him, do I? A part of me dearly wishes that I did._

__

"I can hear you thinking from here, Jaskier. What is it?" The bard's head snaps up to Geralt. Jaskier realizes only then that he has stopped playing long ago. He feels rather sheepish, and puts the lute on his back. 

__

"Nothing of interest." 

__

"Hm." Geralt responds. 

__

_He said the town was nearby, I hope we make it before nightfall._ Jaskier finds his mind hopelessly wandering back to Geralt. From his pockets, Jaskier felt the medallion tremble.

"Say, Geralt, what exactly does that medallion of yours mean-"

The bard's eyes catch something. _Something's terribly wrong here._

__

"Uh, Geralt." Jaskier says uneasily, getting the witcher's full attention. The bard points through the trees. A horse skull is propped up on a pole, etchings on it were clear from here, yet Jaskier can't make them out. 

__

"A Nithing. Kind of curse. They're nothing to scoff at- can bring misfortune, even death. I've-" The minstrel stops the sudden flow of words falling from his mouth. _I've seen them before._ His throat feels dry. _Where have I seen one before? I'm a bard. Where the hell have I seen this, and why?_ Jaskier can feel Geralt's eyes on him, boring into his back- _it feels as if he can read my mind. It's unsettling._ The cat medallion feels heavy in Jaskier's pocket. The witcher ties Roach to a nearby tree and makes his way over to the Nithing, Jaskier follows close behind him. 

__

The Nithing was set up just outside a village, it's propped up against a house with a stone foundation. _Must be the curse Geralt was talking about._ The populace of the town was rather small- consisting of but a few children and less than a dozen men and women. Jaskier walks up to the door of the house with the Nithing, and knocks a few times. No one answers. Looking around, Jaskier spots a woman and child watching us uneasily. 

__

"Scary face... can see his teeth." The kid says under his breath, but the bard catchs it. Jaskier frowns and turns his face away from the kid. His mother scolds him. Geralt watches behind Jaskier. 

__

"Apologizes. If you're looking for the owner of the house, it's me." The woman says. The kid starts coughing violently, Jaskier notices splatters of blood on his hand. The mom holds his shoulders tightly, rubbing them as if it would help him and his condition. 

__

"Nithing have anything to do with that?" Geralt asks, taking a step towards the woman. She looks down at this. 

__

"The horse head? Yes, after it was put up an illness befallen my son, Ivon. He's getting worse by the day." 

__

"We're here to help. You were the one who posted the notice, right?" Jaskier cuts in, she turns to him. 

__

"Yes, I did." 

__

"Know anyone who would want revenge for something?" Jaskier asks. She pauses before slowly nodding her head. 

__

"Who?" The bard presses. Geralt stays silent, watching him. Jaskier can practically hear him thinking. 

__

"I'm not sure if it is him, but perhaps it was Mikael, a past lover of mine. He's not far from here, he's the town herbalist." Jaskier nods at her before walking away, Geralt hot on his trail. 

__

"A bard, huh?" Geralt says, just loud enough for the bard to hear. 

__

"Yes, a bard." _Geralt was strange- sometimes I would kill to know what was going on inside his head, but at other times I hope I would never know. Right now, it was the latter. I'm scared to know what he thinks me to be, mostly because I'm not sure how long I've been a bard. I could've been god knows what before. I'm not exactly young, the occasional white hairs were evidence on their own, not to mention the crow's feet. For all I know, I could've been anything from a prisoner to a soldier before I became a bard. This body of mine and these scars are a dead giveaway that I sure as hell wasn't a farmer or sheepherder before I went to Oxenfurt. Yet, I remember nothing._

__

A thought enters Jaskier's head. _Was I a prisoner? Philppe had mentioned that everyone except us and another person on the ship could 'rightly fuck off'. I could've very well be held prisoner there along with him and the other mentioned party, but why would a bard be arrested? Much less, be locked up in a ship that was going who knew where?_

__

"Wake up." Geralt says from behind him. Jaskier was so lost in thought that he didn't notice that they have arrived at the herbalist's hut. The bard's hand is hovering by the door, close to knocking on it. 

__

"Ahem. Right." He says weakly, ignoring the witcher's quizzical stare. _Pointless now- worrying about all of this. Yet, I can't shake that nagging feeling that a part of me was ripped away._ Jaskier knocks on the door. It isn't a minute later when a man answers the door. He looks them up and down before speaking. 

__

"Yes? Can I help you?" 

__

"You Mikael?" His eyes dart back and forth between the two before landing on Jaskier. 

__

"Yeah, what can I do for you?" He asks, bewildered. 

__

"That Nithing- suppose you didn't have anything to do with it?" Geralt asks, stepping up next to the bard. Geralt's shoulder brushes Jaskier's, and the bard's heart skips a beat. Jaskier pushes down that feeling and focus on the matter at hand. 

__

"So what if I did? Bitch deserved it after leaving me. Brat shouldn't 'ave ever been born." He spits at them. 

__

"Take it down, you don't need to bring innocent people into your personal matters." Geralt demands. 

__

"Fine, I'll take it down. But, she has to renounce her name and come back to me." 

__

"We'll tell her that, but I think we all know what her answer is going to be. Come on, Geralt, let's go." Jaskier turns on his heel, leaving the herbalist. 

__

_\---_

__

The bard was right. The woman wouldn't do what her past lover had wanted of her. 

__

"We could write Mikael's name in the Nithing, throw the curse onto him instead of your son." Geralt says to her. 

__

"It would kill him." Jaskier deadpans, watching her face. 

__

"Yes... but I'd do anything if it meant my son will live another day. Please, do it." 

__

Jaskier frowns, and nods. Geralt and Jaskier leave the woman, and make their way to the back of the house. The Nithing is still there, just as menacing as always. _It bothers me that people have the mind to do these things, just out of spite._ Sighing, Jaskier gropes Geralt's waist, searching for the witcher's dagger. The witcher lifts his arms up slightly, looking down at the bard with a smug smile. 

__

"Oh, shut up, you." Jaskier says, feeling his smug expression on him. The bard finds what he is looking for in a small bag at the witcher's thigh, and Jaskier quickly removes his hands. 

__

"Do continue." Geralt says teasingly. Rolling his eyes, Jaskier flips the dagger in his hands before kneeling down by the Nithing. 

__

"Not really the time to be flirting." Jaskier says solemnly. He begins to carve Mikael's name in the wooden pole, just under Ivon's name. Standing up, he hands Geralt back his dagger, who put it away. They stand in silence for awhile after Jaskier turns the horse skull to face the herbalist's hut, Mikael's home. Geralt starts to walk back to the woman, to collect a reward. The bard stays for a few moments, thinking. He hears Geralt and the woman from the front of the house, their voices muffled. 

__

"Your son will recover soon, and Mikael will die." 

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"Thank the gods! Here witcher, your pay. Well earned." The clinking of coins can be heard. A modest sum. 

__

"Don't bring the gods into this. This was just a squabble between humans." 

__

_\---_

__

A fire crackles in the middle of the campsite, projecting long shadows on the surrounding area. The light cast by the flames dance across the dark trunks of the trees, twisting and curling in obscure shapes and providing a small radius of light. The fire itself is pulsating, the glowing embers seem to move in rhythm with the flames, matching every dip and sweep. It was mesmerizing to watch, colours of orange and red gave way to yellow and white near the center, where the emanating heat was the greatest. 

__

Jaskier tosses a log into the fire, it cracks appreciatively and the flames begin to lick up the side of the wood. They sit side by side in a comfortable silence. Out of the corner of the bard's eye, he can see Geralt watching the flames, deep in thought. They have been traveling a few days straight after the Nithing. At this point, the two fell easily into conversation and would talk here and there, but the bard still would be the one who was doing most of the talking. A few times, though, Geralt would initiate conversation, Jaskier was surprised at this, but decides not to bring it up- fearing that Geralt would never do it again. Jaskier has pushed down any and all growing feelings that were more than platonic towards the other man. _It's obvious enough that he didn't even consider me a friend, yet. Maybe someday we'll become friends. I sincerely hope so._

The bard sighs helplessly. These days, Jaskier finds his thoughts riddled with Geralt, and, to be honest, Jaskier doesn't mind. Not at all. 

__

“Jaskier.” The bard hums in response, eyes locked onto the fire. Geralt turns his head to look at Jaskier. 

__

"Still curious about the medallion?" Jaskier is surprised that the witcher remembers him asking. The bard pushes his hand into his pocket, threading his fingers around the medallion. 

"The more material for your sonnet the better."

"Hm. Witchers receive them during their Final Trial. The medallions warn their wearers of nearby magic at work. Strange, considering that it hums when close to you."

Jaskier's throat went dry. The medallion feels heavy at his thigh. He knew well enough that the two medallions, both having similar sizes and made from the same material, must be related somehow, but Jaskier didn't expect it to have magic properties such as this. Much less it's origin hailing from a school for witchers. It causes a cold sweat to run down the bard's back, the mere thought as to how such an item came into Jaskier's possession is rather worrisome to the bard.

Jaskier struggles with his thoughts for a moment before opening his mouth.

The medallion feels heavy at his thigh.

"Afraid I can't help you with that, might want to get it fixed." He was able to get out that much. Jaskier subconsciously rubs the long wound on his forearm which is hidden by the thin cloth of his shirt. The medallion in Jaskier's pocket hums at this. _Magic, huh?_

Geralt catches the sudden change in demeanor.

"Why so curious?

"Ah, I just thought it to be strange."

"The two swords aren't stranger to you?"

"Hardly. Two forty-and-a-half inch blades are intimidating, yes, but the wolf medallion from bloody Kaedwen is much stranger to look at." Jaskier rambles on, not catching his own words until they already leave his mouth. The witcher watches him closely, eyebrow quirked up.

"I- I, um, I need some rest." Jaskier clears his throat; his is head throbbing and questions are overflowing his mind.

Geralt doesn't press him further, and lets the bard go. He walks off to his few blankets and lies down, ignoring Geralt's gaze on him.

Geralt's thoughts wander back to the fiend, the Nithing, and more.

_He isn’t just some clueless bard, he knows a thing or two, though, that’s a blatant understatement. He’s a learned man, one can only guess where he studied. There’s no way it was just Oxenfurt. Last I’d check, they weren’t teaching their students how to lift curses and what monsters look like, not to mention the exact measurements of a witcher's blade._

The witcher furrows his brow. The flame's light illuminates Jaskier's back. His breathing is even, yet Geralt knows he is still awake.

Geralt douses the fire, letting the night's darkness swallow the campground whole.

_\---_

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_\--_

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_-_

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed up the ending in this chapter and added some at the end to make the rest of the story flow better
> 
> The author had a different plan and lead for the story I'm sure, but I'm just interpenetrating it as I go
> 
> Hope you don't mind :3


	3. it hurts to remember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> thick and juicy foreshadowing

-

\--

\---

A man, face cloaked by the darkness, places a firm hand on a Julian’s shoudler. The normally comforting action makes Julian’s body go rigid. Beyond the fortress walls, an army marches towards them. Banners and flags rise far above the sea of soldiers, the different emblems hailing from the kings and queens of surrounding lands. The man opens his mouth.

“Julian. In this world it’s either kill or be killed. Which will you choose?”

Removing his hand, the man gives Julian a sword. Steel; the scent of iron alone is enough for Julian to tell. Runes are scattered across the blade, the carefully etched weapon has witcher signs close to the hilt and Elder Speech trails down the rest of the sword's length. But what Julian is focused on is the blood stains on the hilt.

Moonlight catches the man’s face, his yellow eyes now on full display. 

"Joël, that's Teigr, Gaetan's sword. What happened?" Julian asks, wariness lacing his words. The man, or Joël, makes no move to respond. Instead, he gestures out the window before continuing.

“A youngblood like yourself won’t last a minute out there. Perhaps a sword will make it two.” His words are grim but true.

Joël draws his own steel blade and turns away from Julian, leaving him with the sword. Julian's hands are gripping the weapon tightly, drawing blood from his palms.

Julian is frozen at the window. In the corner of his eye, he watches the mass of soldiers advance towards him, towards the only home he has.

\---

"No...!" Jaskier wakes in a cold sweat. His voice is hoarse, as if he has been screaming, crying even. _Another nightmare. Never has gotten old over the years._

It’s soon to be dawn. The full moon hangs in the night sky, soon to disappear past the hills and mountains in the distance. In contrast to the dream, it gives off no light.

A scraping sound resonates through the air. Sitting up, Jaskier’s eyes travel to the source of the sound.

A torch illuminates the sharp features of Geralt. He’s hunched over his swords, sharpening the blades with a whetstone. His knuckles are white from clenching onto the stone slab so hard. Sparks fly off the swords with each scrape of the whetstone, it was somehow mesmerizing, familiar even, to Jaskier.

“You all right?” The witcher says without pausing his work.

_No._ He wants to speak his mind, but the words that leave his mouth are different.

“Good morning to you, too. And I’m fine, really, just a bad dream.”

“About?” Jaskier turns his body towards Geralt, now curious as to why the witcher cares in the first place. _Does he not believe me?_

_A horrible, distant memory I want to call it, but I have no recollection of such events. Yet, it seemed as if I was there._ “I’m not too sure myself. It wasn’t exactly lucid, more so ambiguous if I’m being honest.”

“Hm.” Jaskier rests his arms on his raised knees, leaning in closer to Geralt.

“Are you... mad? Distressed even, I would say. What happened?” 

Geralt doesn’t respond, instead he strikes his sword one final time, hard. Sparks fly up, almost reaching the witcher’s face. Jaskier can smell the iron from where he was. _A steel sword._ It brings him back to his dream.

“Go to sleep. Dawn’s some way off.”

_I can’t. The dream - it was far too real for me._ “Yes, yes, you're probably right.” He says before lying down, his back to the witcher.

\---

There is little to distinguish Heatherton from any other fading village on the outskirts of civilization. The afternoon air is painfully humid and filled with the scent of death, the unpainted wooden buildings are peppered with dry rot, and the most important structures - the shops and the well, likely in that order - are right smack dab in the center of town. Bodies are hung on poles just outside the village, under them notices are nailed to the poles. 'Hung for treason', they say.

As Geralt and Jaskier approach the village, it is immediately evident that something is wrong. Despite the lateness of the house, there should still be lights shining through the windows and the shopkeepers should still be doing a brisk business. Instead, the town lies under a blanket of silence and the only light seems to be coming from fires burning beyond its northern border.

“Stay here. Gonna take a look around.” Geralt says, his hand too close to his swords for comfort.

"Wait, don't leave me!" Jaskier barely got the panicked words out before the witcher is gone from his sight.

The bard lets out a frustrated sigh, drumming his fingers on the strap which is keeping his lute on his back. Jaskier's guard is up when his ears catch the sound of a lock turning.

Turning on his heel, the bard walks briskly over to where the sound originated from. A building, just as rundown as the rest of the village, if not even more so. By the looks of the structure, it seems to be a merchant's house. A small sign is outside, nailed to the wall. Though thoroughly rotted, the words were miraculously legible.

_A pawn shop, owned by a certain Johan Erreld who seems to be the only resident of this shithole._ Jaskier knocks on the door lightly, worried that it'd snap in half with the slightest touch.

"Mr. Erreld? You alive in there or is the dry rot getting to me? Honestly, I've seen elven ruins in better condition than this." Silence for a few moments, before someone clears their throat from the other side of the door.

"Who are ye?" A rough voice calls out from inside.

"Just a traveler, I will not do you any harm."

"...Have ye any coin?" The bard gives the door a skeptical look and answers hesitantly.

"Uh, yes. I just so happen to. If I give you a coin will you open the door?"

The man considers it for a while. He responds.

"Slide it under the door, and I'll open up. Given that you'll take a gander at what I have on offer."

"Alright, then. Coin makes the world go 'round, eh?" Jaskier says the last part under his breath as he crouches down, sliding a coin he retrieved from his pouch under the door. A pair of dirt-covered hands fumble under the door, hastily snatching the coin from the floor and jumping back, as if scared of the stranger from outside.

Jaskier stands up, waiting for the door to open. After some fumbling from behind the door, the bard hears a lock click, and the door swings open to reveal an old man in his late 80s perhaps. His gray hair is a mess and Jaskier can't tell if his clothes are half burnt or just in desperate need of a washing.

The old man, Johan, is practically hiding behind the door, eyeing Jaskier carefully.

"You've no weapons, have you?" Johan asks, clearly concerned.

"I'm but a bard," Jaskier smiles as he speaks, bringing his lute around in front of him to present it to Johan, "the most I can do is sing you to death."

"A relief, that is." Johan visibility relaxes, his shoulders no longer hunched up. "Bad things happenin' in this land. No Man's Land is an earned title for Velen, for sure of that."

Johan moves out from behind the door, giving Jaskier a better look at him. His ears are long and pointed. _An elf. Rare to see in these parts of Velen._

"So it would seem." Johan steps out of the way as Jaskier returns his lute to his back and steps inside the pawn shop, taking in the interior.

An exhaustive collection of items are scattered around the shop. Swords, shields, trinkets, perfumes, even cow hides amongst more are practically piled up on top of eachother. The wall to Jaskier's left is completely covered in cloth, fine silk, and animal hides of all sorts. _It seems to me that Johan Erreld is more of a collector, hoarder even, rather than a merchant._

"What a robust collection you have here. Where did you manage to buy it all from? Much less get the coin for, excuse me for saying but you're not exactly living in a townhouse in Novigrad."

Johan closes the door and sits down at a table adjacent to Jaskier. He gestures for the bard to sit across from him, so Jaskier does so. "Buy? Not at all. Found." He gives Jaskier a toothy smile before continuing.

"Spoils of war, the lot of it. Or just unforeseen accidents." Johan stands, walking over to a particular sword hanging on the wall. He lifts it from the mantel and presents it to the bard, the metal catching the sun's light from the window.

"Few years back some Ofieri ship sank to the bottom of the ocean, luckily for me, most of the loot washed up on shore. Happened to be travelin' near the shipwreck and made a small fortune selling their unique swords and armor. 'Course I kept some of it just for old times sake."

He returns the sword to the wall before lifting up a satchel. It is a leather bag, neither expensive nor flashy. Johan digs through it for a moment before retrieving a piece of paper from the bag.

"This here is from the ship, just so happens that this is the first and only intact parchment I ever found, not to mention it's actually legible. Ain't worth squat, but I find things like this interesting. Give it a read, eh? Look into the world from another's eyes."

Johan hands the crinkled letter out to Jaskier. The bard watches it, curiosity blooming in his eyes. He takes the paper and unfolds it, careful not to tear it. His eyes skims over the words, though smudged, only a few words are unreadable. He looks up at Johan.

"Mind if I read it aloud?"

"Not at all. Only read it 'thousand times."

"J .... Soldiers have taken .... They killed Axel and Cedric. As for Schrödinger, well, I can’t say for sure - might be alive, might be dead. A bounty has been put on my head. Avoid me. Don’t attract any attention. Gaetan’s stash is located just north of the herbalist's hut, you know the one. He sells yarrow extract. Take what you want. Joël."

Jaskier feels a pit in his stomach when he finishes. His hold on the letter is feather-light as he lets his arms go slack on the table, his gaze fixed on the wall in front of him. Johan crosses his arms.

"Note seems to lead to a stash of sorts, might be worth something. Tell you what, I'll sell you the note and satchel for the low price of five crowns. All things considered, that's a bargain. Might as well be richer than the bloody king depending on what you may find. Given that you have a clue as to where said stash is, I haven't the foggiest."

"Three crowns for an old satchel and cryptic writings? Are you mad? Said so yourself, you've no clue where the stash is so it's worthless to you. ...Two crowns." Something unknown to the bard is compelling him to buy the satchel.

"Ha! But it's sure as shite worth something to you if you're bargaining for it! Three crowns, I shan't go any lower."

Three coins are forcefully set on top of the table. Geralt. He is standing behind Jaskier, streaks of gore on his face. _Not his own, rather Human blood._ Jaskier notes, at this point accepting the strange but otherwise helpful knowledge.

"Geralt, my friend! Where have you been?" Johan jumps back, his eyes flicking back and forth from the blood on Geralt's face and his swords.

"W-Who are you?! Get out! I am a peaceful person, I've no need for the likes of you here!" Johan yells, frightened. Jaskier opens his mouth to speak, but Geralt interrupts him.

"We were just about to leave. Jaskier, let's go." Jaskier is about to protest before he sees a few dead bodies outside. Witch Hunters of the Eternal Fire. Notoriously known for their brutality and hatred towards non-humans.

The bard swallows thickly. He stuffs the note inside the satchel and takes it, leaving the coin behind. Jaskier walks outside, Geralt following behind. But before the witcher shut the door, he turned to Johan.

"If I were you, I'd leave this town before nightfall." Johan pales at the sight of the witch hunters. With that, Geralt shuts the door. A lock clicking can be heard from inside, followed by the rummaging of bags and such.

\---

Geralt unties Roach's reins from the post just outside of Heatherton. It's dawn out, and the two have no where to spend the night. The bard is leaning against a tree, strumming his lute thoughtfully.

"Say, Geralt, what happened back there with those witch hunters?"

The witcher loops the reins around his hand, urging Roach into a slow trot.

"I killed them after I figured out what happened to the town. Those corpses we passed just outside of town turned out to be the town itself. Eternal Fire's work."

Jaskier pushes himself off the tree and jogs up to Geralt's side.

"Why's that?"

"Don't know. They spewed something about treason, but with their conscious I find that hard to believe."

"Oh, that's... quite unsettling." Jaskier taps the wood under the lute strings a few times. They walk in a comfortable silence for a few minutes before the bard speaks up again.

"How long were you behind me, anyways? You're rather light on your feet for such a big guy, ya know." _Now that I think about it, he's got a few inches on me. Not to mention his broad shoulders only add to his size, honestly, I'm surprised he can fit through some doorways. Though he's a little on the skinny side, he's rather lean. I wonder how his chest feels._

Jaskier traces his jawline, thinking seriously about the idea of it. His eyes drift to Geralt, watching his muscles strain against the thinner areas of his armor. Jaskier's gaze travels downwards- Blood rushes up to his face when he catches himself staring, throwing his thoughts into a flustered mess. Whereas Geralt, on the other hand, has no idea what indecencies Jaskier is imagining.

"Long enough to learn about a stash. Any clue as to where it might be- why are you so red?"

"Is it hot out?! You're really hot! A-as in temperature of course! Not in a sexual way!" He says in one breath, almost tripping over his own boots while speaking.

Jaksier's face is a hot mess. _Really, Jaskier?! Just thinking about him in that way gets you like this?_

Grabbing his face, Jaskier groans into his hands. Geralt watches in amazement as the bard goes through more emotions in just a few seconds than he has experienced in his entire life.

"No, Geralt. I've no clue where the stash is..." Jaskier says, his voice is muffled by his hands. The witcher hums in response, a knowing smile playing on his lips.

\---

Cries, or screams - they are hard to tell apart - fill the night air. They aren't loud and blood-curling, but rather softer and more saddening. Geralt watches the fire, it's almost completely burned out. Behind him, Jaskier is tossing and turning in his sleep. _He's having another nightmare._

For the entirety of their travels, Jaskier has been having nightmare every night. Geralt is aware that Jaskier doesn't know the sounds he makes in his sleep, the cries for help, the screams of pain, nothing. What bothers the witcher the most are the names Jaskier sometimes gets out. Not the names themselves, but the way the bard says them. He sounds so familiar with the names that they simply roll off his tongue with ease, yet his face is contorted in confusion, lacking all familiarity that is in the tone of his voice.

Geralt's eye twitches when Jaskier speaks ever so softly.

"...Geralt." That's all the convincing he needs. Geralt kicks the fire, dousing it, and grabs his own blanket. The witcher throws his fur blanket over Jaskier before lying down next to him, pulling the brunette into his arms.

Jaskier sleeps soundly for the remainder of the night.

\---

The sun blinds Jaskier in the morning. Yawning, he sits up and stretches his arms out.

He looks over to Geralt, who is tending to Roach.

"Mornin'." Jaskier says, not expecting an answer back.

"Good morning. Get ready to go, Novigrad isn't too far." Stunned, Jaskier simply just sits there.

Jaskier clears his throat before he begins to pack. He reaches for his blanket, but pauses when he sees another blanket on top of his. Geralt's. Jaskier's eyes linger on the blanket before knotting his hands in the furs. He snaps his head towards the witcher.

"You-" Jaskier stops himself, and smiles at Geralt's back. "Thank you." He says softly, knowing fully well that the witcher can hear him. Geralt doesn't respond.

\---

\--

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed :3
> 
> leave a comment, love to know how i'm doing so far


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